


By Thunder, Kinship

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: (lightly) - Freeform, (mildly), Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belly Kink, Body Modification, Chiss With Knots, Creampie, Daddy Kink, Deeply Unhealthy Relationships, Depression, Discussed Xenophobia, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Grief/Mourning, Isolation, Knotting, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Coercion, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Piercing, Plot With Porn, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rogue One Spoilers, Self-Hatred, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Tantric Sex, Unhealthy Intimacy and Love, Xenophilia, emotional dependency, human/non-human - Freeform, mainly plot, no a/b/o, non-con drugging, piercing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: Thrawn steps forward to rest a hand along the curve of Erso’s throat, the pulse of his blood invigorating, the skin above it glowing with years of fresh food and hygiene prior to this entanglement.  Against the recycled air of the ship, the primal scents of his exhaustion and fear are delicious to Thrawn’s senses.“Release him.  You are dismissed.”The Death Troopers behind Erso salute and exit, leaving them in relative isolation inside the hangar bay as the transport ship departs.  Erso mouths at his own flaking lips, a sweetly mindless gesture that sends a thrill through Thrawn.  He slips his hand downwards behind Erso’s back, unclasping the binders easily.“Welcome aboard the Chimaera, my dear Dr. Erso.”Galen survives Eadu.  Thrawn has plans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I in no way condone or support the canon actions or the actions of Thrawn, Tarkin, Krennic, Vader, etc. in my fics. I haven’t stated this before, but because of the graphic content of this particular one, I decided that it was time for me to put that out there. This is fiction and that’s exactly what it should stay.
> 
> I’ve tried to tag everything (including plot points in all upcoming chapters) as carefully as I can. 
> 
> If this fic isn’t for you, I have written a fair bit of rare pair femslash and some character study ficlets about Oola and various Imperial officers, as well as some longer non-graphic Vader/Tarkin.
> 
> Other Notes:
> 
> -So much love to @baethoven, who betaed this fic to absolute death. She deserves all the attention, and if you like Vader/Tarkin or Tarkin/Krennic, I highly recommend “Sedition”. Beautiful imagery and a fascinating look into Vader’s psyche (while also being stupidly hot).  
> -If the second snippet seems familiar, it’s because it’s adapted from a drabble I wrote about a month ago. I expanded upon it and thus, this fic was born.  
> -Despite the inclusion of knotting, this won’t be an mpreg or A/B/O story. I just wanted to add an extra layer of kinkiness to satisfy a favorite headcanon.  
> -I’ve had fun thinking of names for this bizarre pairing, but my current frontrunners are ScienChiss and GalenThrawn.

 

+

The prisoner transport ship is much as Galen had expected it to be, threading cold bursts of circulation into the acrid wetness of his own vomit. The injection they’ve given him is a familiar one, rolling softly in his bloodstream as it distributes itself, an artificial calm flowing against his mind’s desire to recoil, to panic and shred himself apart until nothing is left.

 

Jyn is dying. Lyra is long dead. His engineers, his team on Eadu—loyal to the Empire, but victims of his nonetheless—were executed centimeters away from his pounding heart. He is an unwilling villain in another’s story, manipulated by love and old trust into a role that is his nonetheless. There is a galaxy’s blood on his hands now that the station is complete, but he finds that he can look no further than the bodies he’d once held, those he had loved and looked after and seen wrenched from his desperate grip for the sake of destruction.

 

 _Perhaps I am journeying towards a fitting punishment_ , Galen thinks just as the sedative wraps around his mind and he sways into a crouch against the wall of the ship. He had heard of Grand Admiral Thrawn years before, of his ruthlessness and vision for the Empire that rivaled Tarkin’s. Galen cannot bother himself to worry now, to fear Thrawn’s grasp. He simply hopes that Thrawn will kill him, painlessly or not, though he suspects he will not be given so light a sentence. He cannot bear another decade of false loyalty when he knows that Jyn is committing suicide for the plans he’s lost hope of her acquiring, but it is no less than he deserves.

 

Galen lets his body fall to the floor, the Death Troopers beside him impassive.

 

+

The man who stands before Thrawn is of a healthy height for a human, beautifully strapping and noble of build despite the sedatives he’s obviously had forced upon him. Erso’s eyes are pure warmth, as soft as a domesticated animal’s beneath his filthy hair. Their glassiness will wear off with the drugs, and Thrawn cannot wait to study them further, to brush his fingers along every individual lash and taste the lingering wetness along their inner rims.

 

Thrawn steps forward to rest a hand on the curve of Erso’s throat, the pulse of his blood invigorating, the skin above it glowing with years of fresh food and hygiene prior to this entanglement. Against the recycled air of the ship, the primal scents of his exhaustion and fear are delicious to Thrawn’s senses.

 

“Release him. You are dismissed.”

 

The Death Troopers behind Erso salute and exit, leaving them in relative isolation inside the hangar bay as the transport ship departs. Erso mouths at his own flaking lips, a sweetly mindless gesture that sends a thrill through Thrawn. He slips his hand downwards behind Erso’s back, unclasping the binders easily.

 

“Welcome aboard the _Chimaera_ , my dear Dr. Erso.”

 

+

“Kill me.” Galen’s voice is pathetic to his own ears, a parched whine juxtaposed harshly with the regality of what he presumes are Thrawn’s private quarters. “I do not care.”

 

Thrawn ignores him, choosing instead to activate the holoprojector built into the table before them. He smiles, settling into the thickly-padded chair beside Galen, who watches with sinking dread as an image takes form. It is an official holo of himself, taken years before for the Imperial database on the same day he was issued his clearance cylinders.

 

Galen finds that he cannot look himself in the eye.

 

“Dr. Galen Walton Erso, 56 standard years old, born on the planet Grange.” Thrawn stares at the image, his hand clasping Galen’s in a tight, burning grip, twining their fingers together as he continues. “Chosen for the Brentaal Futures Program by the Republic at fifteen, orphaned shortly thereafter. Graduated with top honors in the Academy’s materials competition before accepting a professorship at the Institute of Applied Science on Coruscant arranged by Orson Callan Krennic. Later took a position with Zerpen Industries on the planet Vallt, only to be imprisoned by Separatist allies. Was freed via a prisoner exchange, arranged again by Orson Krennic, who went on to secure him a position at Helical HyperCom on Lokori. Recruited for the Tarkin Initiative’s DS-1 project on Eadu upon the rise of the Empire, once again by Orson Krennic. A recipient of the Kuat Systems Engineering Medal, the Ashgad Prize, and the Roche Foundation Prize over the course of his long, if unconventional, career.”

 

Galen feels a familiar grief building beneath the thick layer of the sedative, rising into his throat. _Lyra and Jyn, always Lyra and Jyn_. His chest burns at the memory of Lyra’s love and defiance, of Jyn’s imagination and promise and the bravery of his only child, alive and strong despite his failure. He aches for the years they spent together, for so many more than he was able to steal away on Lah’mu.

 

Thrawn knows this, and he is waiting for Galen’s response.

 

“Yes, you have the right man.” He does not want the names of his wife and little girl to ever be spoken by Thrawn.

 

“Now, I’ll answer your prior request. Why would I grant you such a favor as death? Especially when you’ve wasted such a brilliant career and such passion for your work on a moral folly. You conspired with the traitor Bodhi Rook and committed subterfuge with your daughter, inciting a skirmish which destroyed the data files of hundreds of Imperial projects. You’ve cost the Empire trillions of credits in damages and thousands of valuable officers, scientists, and other specialists.”

 

Galen is silent, his eyes heavy with a tired guilt. Thrawn continues, trailing the hand softly along the crown of Galen’s head. “Grand Moff Tarkin was able to turn the battle into an opportunity to test the power of the weapon. The success of Scarif’s destruction and my interference are the only reasons you have been kept alive.”

 

“Jyn is dead.”

 

Thrawn’s caresses pause, as though their mockery of comfort refuses to extend to this length. “Yes, Dr. Erso. Jyn was vaporized on Scarif. Your friend Director Krennic with her as well.”

 

Galen can feel the breath shudder from him, but the effects of the injection draw him away from any true mourning and merely leave him dazed, unsurprised but utterly defeated.

 

Thrawn remains stoic, his hand searingly hot in Galen’s, the skin purpling with tension. Galen forces himself to find anything appropriate to say, to convince Thrawn to leave him to starve in a cell, alone with the pain he’s wrought.

 

“Then Tarkin is forcing me to live and be your slave as punishment?”

 

Thrawn finally withdraws his hand, leaning slightly back to examine Galen’s features. “You are a prisoner of the Empire, under my supervision as approved by Grand Moff Tarkin. You were given to me, not sold. A curious distinction, if you care to examine the implications.”

 

Galen’s eyes water. “Please forgive me if I don’t.” _I sound like Orson,_ he thinks dully.

 

Thrawn’s mouth hardens and Galen finally feels a stab of fear from the sharpness of those red, red eyes upon him. “Snideness doesn’t suit you, Dr. Erso. You will break such habits under my command.”

 

The lack of effort or humor in Galen’s laugh is jarring. “Tarkin and Krennic have already managed to break my spirit, I guarantee that.”

 

Thrawn's smile as he helps Galen to his feet is genuine, brilliant. “Then I shall delight in arranging what they’ve left me.”

 

  
+

It is only through great personal discipline that Thrawn is able to keep himself from claiming Erso on the floor of the fresher, grime and tranquilizers be damned. A terrible pity that Star Destroyers do not come equipped with Csillan basins.

 

Erso is far finer an acquisition than he’d dared to hope, a treasure that Tarkin should never have allowed to pass from his grip. Yes, the raw materials in both mind and body are present, delightful to Thrawn’s senses and he intends to create a masterpiece with them. Pellaeon is clever, charming in his strapping brand of loyalty, but Thrawn values his career over his cock and is thus is not interested in bending the rules of the Empire until they arc around to stab him in the back. Erso will be a companion perfectly suited and borne from sheer opportunity, brilliant without ego, loyal without expectation, doubtlessly sublime beneath his ruined garments.

 

As Thrawn peels the offensive uniform from Erso’s body, he marvels at the grace of the figure his hands skim, the finest that his infatuated mind tells him he’s ever seen. He slips his fingers along Erso’s broad chest, against the gentle curves of the flesh and muscle he finds. He smiles while he throws the tunic, trousers, and boots into the garbage chute with a savage satisfaction, his eyes grazing over the tender belly Galen seems content to leave vulnerable. Prone, naked in Thrawn’s arms, he ceases being Dr. Erso in Thrawn’s mind.

 

“Galen.” It’s a soft sound, lilting in the way that human names often are. Light, pleasant on Thrawn’s tongue. He murmurs it in a meaningless litany as he half-rests Galen on the cool tiles of the shower, lathering his hands thick with a shampoo he hasn’t used in some time. The scent will suit Galen, he decides. Fresher, warmer and distinct from Thrawn’s own yet harmonious when combined.

 

Galen’s hair takes several minutes to wash free of oil, though the sweat and stench of Tarkin’s treatment slips free from him with barely two passes under the water. His face is strikingly smooth where Thrawn’s hands massage it clean, and he reminds himself that barely a standard day has passed between his arrest on Eadu and his transport to the _Chimaera_. War is fast in action and slow in forgiveness, and Thrawn promises himself that Galen will know no more of it than he’s already been forced to.

 

Thrawn scrubs lower, his mouth firm when Galen momentarily clenches his thighs together before seemingly sensing the futility of his gesture. A plump pink cock is revealed, surrounded by a thatch of curls similar in color to the caramel of his hair. He’ll shave them clean another time, when he doesn’t think the glint of a razor will startle Galen from his momentary calm.

 

Once Galen’s hair and body have been washed, there’s little enough left for Thrawn to do beyond wrapping him in a towel and pouring a dental rinse into his mouth, seating him on the shower’s bench when his legs shudder with exhaustion.

 

“Swallow it, now. It’ll soothe your throat.”

 

Galen gulps the solution down, taking a second swig before Thrawn withdraws it. Thrawn imagines how parched and thick with grease his mouth must have been, regrets not having offered him water when he’d first arrived.

 

Galen sets the bottle down and curls into himself upon the bench, the towel dropping to the floor. Thrawn offers his hand and Galen limply takes it, the curve of his brow defiant. Such ungratefulness should irritate Thrawn, but this is to be expected, encouraged even for Galen to retain his cleverness and value in this exchange. Galen likely will not remember this first act of care, and Thrawn wishes that he could have felt every sensation of his gentle grooming, his immediate care for Galen’s needs. He must sleep off the sedatives before they can continue, wake clean and alert in the surroundings he will grow accustomed to. All of the reactions such a process draws forth, Galen’s fear and grief and eventual arousal, must be his own for Thrawn to enjoy them, unmarred by Tarkin’s drugs.

 

“Sleep,” Thrawn orders softly, leading Galen into his bed. He resists the urge to palm himself at the sight, instead kissing a drop of moisture from Galen’s forehead as he draws the covers around his vulnerable form. “We shall continue once that remarkable mind of yours has cleared.”

 

  
+

Galen shudders against the stale air that welcomes him when he rises from underneath Thrawn’s bedclothes. His belly is tight with emptiness, a perfectly flat plane concealed now with the draping white silk pajamas that are barely preferable to nakedness. They are too small, as are the tee-muss leather slippers that Thrawn had tied onto him before leaving for an unscheduled moment on the bridge. Dressed and seated at the transparaglass table that rests beside the projector and chairs, he’s been told that dinner will be served shortly. He’d trade the chill of the rain on Eadu or the blunt indignity of the transport ship for this in an instant, he thinks, seeing the peaks of his nipples where they press lewdly against the slippery fabric.

 

There is nothing mooring him to composure now, no sedatives to dull the shattering loss of Jyn and the ache Orson’s left. In his sober mind and Thrawn’s absence, he struggles not to collapse with the weight of guilt and self-hatred and love for his child, knowing that he will never rise from it if he does. Instead, he lets himself think of Orson’s death—the death he should be smug over. Another would feel triumph at their creation killing the man responsible for Lyra’s execution and who was doubtlessly involved in Jyn’s death, but he feels only a cold grief for Orson’s empty space in the universe. This will pass, he knows, and cycle again back into fury and blame for ruining his life even when Galen knows he has been an active participant himself in what has happened.

 

Galen eyes the cutlery before him blankly, tensing at Thrawn’s indulgent smile when he returns, a bottle in his hand and a platter-laden droid at his heels.

 

“I knew you would not harm yourself. You see this as a punishment befitting the crimes you’ve set upon your shoulders.”

 

Galen doesn’t offer an answer or a word of praise for what Thrawn must see as his own cleverness. Instead, he watches as Thrawn pours a single glass of wine, setting it upon the table in the space between them.

 

“There is nothing in the wine that will sedate or harm you. Please, join me in sharing this glass.”

 

“I don’t partake.”

 

Thrawn raises his eyebrows minutely, seeming to catalogue this information. “Have a carafe of ice water brought for Dr. Erso and then return to the galley,” he orders the serving droid.

 

Galen is silent, motionless in a curious relief. He is suddenly desperately hungry, yet cannot imagine eating.

 

“I do not make a habit of speaking during private meals. Especially during one so fine as this. Alderaanean cuisine is quite hard to obtain nowadays, especially on such short notice.”

 

Thrawn sits down at the opposite end of the table from Galen, his fingers tapping quickly upon a data pad before he presses it into a nearby port.

 

“I implore you instead to focus upon the plate and glass in front of you, to calm yourself as best you can under these circumstances. I believe I have a recording from Yva Rjni’s last concert in Aldera that would go beautifully with this tableau.”

 

Galen ignores Thrawn’s suggestion and instead begins to finally study his captor as he slices into his braised nerf and swallows around his guilt. He has heard of the Chiss, of course, but has never met a member of their race before. Blue skin, black hair, crimson predator’s eyes. Nearly human, but not human enough to be fully worthy of the Empire’s regard. Galen wonders exactly how Thrawn has managed to rise so far in its ranks. He examines the stewed kebroot and malla salad beside his steak, considers. Perhaps it’s due to his race’s pragmatism in battle, but that is a rough oversimplification, little better than the assumption that all Twi’leks are perfect dancers. His main point of knowledge of the Chiss is now Thrawn, it seems.

 

Biting into the steak once again, Galen thinks back to the conversations he’d overheard about Thrawn throughout the years. Orson had never mentioned him, preferring instead to discuss Tarkin when he fell on the topic of his fellow officers. Uravan claimed to have met Thrawn once, he believes, telling the rest of the table how the man slit his left wrist open before every battle as was customary on his planet. Or was that Argonne’s story? Truly, Galen hadn’t been paying attention. Thrawn had been a curiosity for those who wanted to think of him as such and a threat more distant than that of the Maker for Galen.

 

Thrawn’s head turns as he reaches for the glass of wine he’s left as a centerpiece, the deep red of his irises catching against Galen’s lowered face. They are searing, desperate under their cool regard, but more terrible to Galen is the uniform Thrawn bears with such might, the insignia plaque he carries far more proudly than even Orson had.

 

All of the food on Galen’s plate is decadent, presented in lavish portions that he can’t stop himself from finishing. The procedure of courses has been done away with, creating a sort of intimacy at the table that Galen finds both relieving and jarring at once. He forces himself to meet Thrawn’s pace once he’s reached for his bowl of stew, finishing several glasses of water off hastily afterwards. The airy cheese garnished atop it nearly brings tears to his eyes. Were he unaware of Thrawn’s apparent fixation with Alderaan, he would have mistaken it for a strain common on Grange that he hasn’t had since childhood.

 

As a second droid enters to clear away the dishes and silverware, Thrawn finally speaks over the rim of the wineglass, low and inviting. “I would make a comment as to dessert, but you are far too exquisite to be compared to a pleasure as singular and fleeting as the course of a meal.”

 

Galen has known the purpose of this display, of course, that this comfort and washing and feeding is the prelude to rape. Galen hasn’t allowed himself to remember this, knowing that it will be easier to endure and respond as he’s expected to if he hasn’t analyzed every possible scenario Thrawn will later enact upon him. Orson had at least taught him that much.

 

Thrawn rises from his chair, slinking his arms around Galen as he leans closer, his breath burning Galen’s cheeks. “I’m afraid I’m far too tantalized to offer you the Alderranean spiced caf or a lengthier seduction. You’ve stroked my passions high today, my dear.”

 

Galen shudders, turns to look at Thrawn with all the disgust he can no longer suppress and then Thrawn’s lips are pressed against his, plush and wanting.

 

Galen hates himself for the swallowed cry he emits as he returns the kiss, for so many reasons beyond his reactions in this moment. But kisses have always undone him, spread a unique, sweet pleasure through him, and this one is no different.

 

Lyra’s kisses were frequent, knowing, as inimitable as she was and just as lost to him. Orson kissed him less and less as the years went on, their encounters rough and bruising. Galen suspected that he might have found a firmer, more authoritative hand, had simply allowed himself gratefulness at the time. He does not want to examine the envy he’d felt along with such knowledge, and this moment is perfect for forgetting, for letting himself sink into Thrawn’s confusing, terrifying sensuality.

 

Thrawn’s mouth tastes of his last sip of wine, thick and warm and altogether dizzying. His touch is too hot, searing where it strokes under the pajamas and caresses Galen’s skin, unbuttoning the shirt and trousers and letting them fall to the floor beneath the table.

 

“Wait for me on the bed,” Thrawn growls against Galen's jaw when he finally pulls away.

 

Galen stumbles onto Thrawn’s bed, as white and glaring as the rest of the apartment, the covers still rumpled from where he’d slept underneath them. He hears Thrawn removing his boots and trousers in the nearby closet, likely polishing his epaulets before putting them away. Galen’s pulse races, and he watches the door with an ugly sort of anticipation for Thrawn to reappear.

 

Thrawn returns naked within moments, holding a bottle of what is quite obviously lubricant. His body is truly sculpted, flowing with a muscle tone that Galen has never seen on a human. He’s too struck by the overwhelming presence Thrawn still manages to project that he is genuinely surprised to find that Thrawn has crossed the room and is kissing him once again, smiling against Galen’s shudder.

 

“I hope I am to your satisfaction, my dear.”

 

Galen does not allow himself to dissociate as Thrawn fingers him open, impatient and nearly sloppy with overlubrication, strangely reminiscent of Orson.

 

“So good, such a docile creature.”

 

Galen feels himself grow half-hard with Thrawn’s fingers teasing against his prostate, nearly whimpering when they are withdrawn. He gasps instead, and then suddenly Thrawn’s mouth is on his again as he slides Galen’s knees onto his shoulders and sinks into him with a long, aching thrust.

 

Galen forces himself to feel every drag of Thrawn’s cock once it’s inside him, thicker than Orson’s and sickening in how pleasurably stretched he feels around it. Thrawn does not last long, and Galen moans in both arousal and relief when he feels his release coat him in several short, full bursts. But the pulsing doesn’t stop, and soon Galen feels as though his belly is swelling with the flood of liquid, tight against his own cock. Thrawn seems to grow thicker inside him with each one, squeezing painfully within Galen’s body. Galen lets out a choked cry, barely managing to squirm a millimeter before Thrawn pins him closer.

 

“You weren’t aware.” Thrawn’s voice is breathy with what sounds like fondness against Galen’s jugular. “Chiss knot, Galen. It won’t harm you if you remain still until it settles.”

 

Galen is frozen in both mind and body, his cock still pulsing with a horrible heat where Thrawn ruts against it. Every movement drives the head of Thrawn’s cock against Galen’s prostate, sending him into a fit of breathy whimpers.

 

“There, let it fill you up,” Thrawn croons, stroking Galen’s shaking shoulders, mouthing the quivering tendons in his neck. “Ease your body into it, open for me. I want you to enjoy it.”

 

Galen feels another, longer pulse of fluid flow into him, bites his lip bloody in disgust at his own hardness. He is close, despite every circumstance in place, and Thrawn knows it, this entire shameful charade of affection pushing him directly into this instant.

 

“What a delight you are!” Thrawn’s breath is light against Galen’s lips, sealing his kiss with perfect gentleness.

 

Galen sobs as he finds release in Thrawn’s words, in the ease with which he accepts them and craves more despite the low throb of shame he can no longer mask.

 

 _I will not cry_ , Galen decides with a determination that surprises him as his mind clears. _I won’t give him the pleasure_.

 

“I’ll have you astride me tomorrow. I’d like to see in finer detail what a beautiful specimen I’ve captured for my studies.”

 

Galen hears Thrawn’s musings continue, but he cannot process them, falling asleep against the vibrations of his chest and the softening thickness within him. He is aware later of being held easily in Thrawn’s arms and once more cleaned, flashes of blue skin brushing him as Thrawn scrubs himself as well. The sensation of being carefully embraced returns, and despite the rawness of pain seeping into him, the intimacy of Thrawn’s bare, damp skin against his back is more fulfilling than anything he’s felt in a decade.

 

“Chiss purr as well, my dear,” Thrawn murmurs against the nape of Galen’s neck. “It’s said to be quite soothing. Let it help you sleep.”

 

Galen stares out at the star field that occupies the wall beside him while Thrawn’s breathing evens into a steady thrum. His eyes harden at the emptiness beyond, blurring until they sting so sharply that he is forced to close them.

 

  
+

Galen’s own moans wake him some timeless moments later, the sounds obscene in the darkened, sterile room. He’s sore throughout his body, skin burning with heat where Thrawn’s forearm rests against his belly and where his mouth laps lazily up and down his cock. Galen cranes his neck to look across his own body at Thrawn, feeling bile rise in his throat from the rich meal as he does so.

 

Thrawn catches his eye nearly immediately, pulling slightly back from Galen’s cock with a last savory lick. “Ah, Galen. It's good to see you awake and with some color in your cheeks. What a lovely sight.”

 

Thrawn returns to his task, his hand lazily pinning Galen to the bed as he pouts his lips and sucks the head between them, his mouth drawing an animal’s pleasure from Galen’s oversensitive flesh. Galen feels himself release into Thrawn’s mouth with a final whine, falling back asleep before he can even register shame.

 

When Galen awakens again, the room is soaked in artificial light and there is a muted bellowing echoing from both Thrawn’s personal device on the headboard and the room’s emergency com. The deafening synchronicity throbs against his temples, draws a panic from deep within Galen’s chest.

 

“Sir, there’s been a disaster—the Emperor has sent a transmission, marked it urgent. Code 329.”

 

Thrawn is already dressed to the waist, his eyes hard with anger as he watches Galen climb out of the bed and stand on shaking legs, a horrible spark of hope spurring him into energy. “Read it to me, Captain,” he orders levelly, pulling an undershirt and a tunic from his closet. “Ignore clearance protocol yourself but have any others sent out of the room while you do so. I’ll be on the bridge shortly.”

 

“Project Stardust—Sir, it’s been destroyed! Grand Moff Tarkin, General Tagge, Admiral Motti, Lord Vader—all were aboard, all presumed dead.”

 

Galen hears his own strangled breathing choke into silence before he is flooded with vertigo. He stumbles backwards against Thrawn’s bed, the sharp crack of his skull against the headboard a relief from the wrenching pain of loss he can no longer bear.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have changed slightly. Please heed them.

+

Galen makes a noise as he sinks back against the pillows, a stuttering “N-n” between chattering teeth, terrible to Thrawn’s ears. A human skull is harder than a plastisteel headboard, he knows, and so he is able to smile, wide and encompassing while he strokes Galen’s tender forehead.

 

“Yes, Galen. Yes, my gift,” he soothes, swiping his thumb through a stray drop of blood.

 

There is nothing more to be done about Galen’s injuries until after Thrawn has fully read and responded to the Emperor’s alert. He sends for a medical droid to asses Galen, kissing his fluttering mouth as quickly as he can bear before leaving for the bridge. With the situation secure, Thrawn easily puts any intrusive concerns for Galen out of his mind for the duration of the shift.

 

Galen has begun to stir by the time he returns, a neat bacta patch across his temple, clean bedclothes nested around him. His face is tucked against his arms, Thrawn’s pillow discarded in the shadows of the half-lit room.

 

“Shh, my dear,” Thrawn murmurs, approaching the bed. “You mustn’t worry. You’re quite stable. A minor concussion and a wound that’s been sealed, nothing more.”

 

Galen’s moan of acknowledgement is met with a brush of Thrawn’s lips. “Good, so responsive. Rest, now.” He pulls a purr from deep within his chest, as low and cozy as he can make it while he settles Galen against him, their foreheads brushing with every intake of breath.

 

Several minutes after Galen’s breathing has evened into telltale sleep, Thrawn extricates himself, stripping off his tunic and undershirt. After pouring himself a glass of wine, he stands idly at the foot of the bed, listening as his own rhythms grow more relaxed at the sight of Galen’s softened face.

 

There is nothing delicate about Galen’s body or features—delightful not only aesthetically, but also for the knowledge that his healing will be the easier for it. Only his eyes are fragile, warm and docile. They are a boy’s eyes set into a man’s face, gently curious and yet without a child’s mischief or brightness. They truly are almost non-sentient, hiding Galen’s brilliance behind their vulnerability.

 

Thrawn lazily palms himself through his trousers, imagining Galen’s mouth brushing his growing arousal while he looks up at him, cautious yet wanting. He sips the wine, undoing his buttons slowly, savoring the thought of Galen stirred into boldness for want of his cock.

 

Galen sleeps deeply now, occasionally letting out little purr-like snores of his own. Thrawn watches him, continuing his lazy stroking as he drinks the last of the wine and sets the glass aside. With a final kiss to Galen’s hair, he arches his back in a deep stretch, quite ready for the steady pulse of a shower’s water and the minor relief it can offer him.

 

 

+

With a Star Destroyer’s supplies and Thrawn’s careful attention, Galen’s recovery is far more comfortable than any he’s known before. His wound is dressed every time Thrawn leaves and returns by a medical droid, soups and bread brought with every dose of the light pain relief pills that dissolve on his tongue. He settles into the routine of an invalid, eating heartily and thinking infrequently, nagged only by minor headaches that he uses as an excuse to sleep and avoid his own conscience.

  
  
The side effects of Galen’s convalescence are insidious, striking once his body has healed and sleep is no longer a dreamless escape. He is as inert and unstimulated as he had been on Coruscant after Vallt, without the comfort of Lyra’s wit and warmth or even the fussiness of an infant Jyn to tend to. Thrawn, of course, locks every data port and holoprojector each time he leaves for a shift, sliding the com link systems behind blaster-proof shutters. Galen quickly ceases trying to escape or even access the coms for the possibility of a would-be defector’s attention, allowing himself a single sob of frustration as he claws at the door one interminable shift, his nails chipping against the durasteel.

 

Thrawn has left him to the idleness of a true prisoner, and Galen must make do. He begins to groom himself with an almost manic level of care, the effects his upkeep may have on Thrawn’s libido always slightly too close to the forefront of his thoughts. But Galen is desperate for the mindlessness of the habits, and he finds himself unable to break the lengthy routine once he’s begun it. He spends long moments rubbing his scalp and skin to tightness with soap and shampoo, prodding into Thrawn’s storage cabinet for washes, scrubs, and creams to accompany them. He shaves his face and chest as Orson did daily, shuddering at the thought of Thrawn’s razor against his neck, the pounding of his blood beneath it.

 

With nothing else to occupy his frantic mind, Galen is instead forced deep into his own thoughts. Cleansed, dressed in the ever-present white pajamas and slippers and robe, sitting with a cup of the sweet caf Thrawn seems to believe he favors, he slips into himself as though he were a meditating Jedi.

 

The station is destroyed. Jyn did not die for nothing. The Empire has lost the plans and the decades-long ordeal of its creation won’t encourage the Emperor to fund another terror like it. Though it will take more than its loss to bring the Empire to its knees, it has proven that it is not immortal. Perhaps when it does fall, he will feel even a modicum of his deserved guilt diminish.

 

Is he planning to live to see the end of the Empire, then? If Thrawn’s ship were captured and not simply destroyed on sight, would he be spared and brought to their base? Would they bother? Unless the leaders of the Rebellion survive every future battle and then care to clear his name to the galaxy as a whole, he will be forever known as an antagonist to all but Jyn, every bit as loyal to the Empire as Orson had been. Perhaps that is his true punishment—to have his unwanted creation turned against him and his beloved family and to never be known for his sabotage.

 

These and other lines of thinking accompany Galen in Thrawn’s absence, cyclical, ever unresolved to any end that satisfies him. While he tries to count the night cycles when he can, Galen is unsure of how long he has been in Thrawn’s quarters once his irregular sleeping hours are taken into account. Without the aid of a chrono, Galen too cannot gauge how long Thrawn has been gone or when he will return. In the absence of knowledge, the hours stretch longer, allowing his dread and self-hatred to fester into torment.

 

While being trapped alone with himself is a punishment Galen can believe is no less than he deserves, far worse is the relief he feels when Thrawn finally does return. He kisses Galen for long, soft moments as soon as the door has closed behind him, falling into bed fully-dressed with him, gathering Galen close and simply petting and nestling with him as often as he initiates sex. His presence is emphatic, forcing Galen to remain in the moment both from simple animal panic and a subconscious need to quiet his mind.

 

Thrawn makes no show of masking his intents for Galen with the detachment he’d assumed a man of such position might have, and by now Galen has been taken in every way he can think of. He has even allowed Galen to take him, a show of consideration for his aching body one evening when Galen finally squirmed away from his touches. Galen had watched, rapt, as Thrawn prepared himself without the gaudiness of Orson’s moans, but when he wasn’t able to remain hard enough to perform, Thrawn simply tutted away the panic in his eyes and drew him into his mouth.

 

“Another time, my dear,” he had hummed between licks, stroking Galen’s sides and kissing up his belly, eyes reverently closed.

 

Thrawn’s favored position, however, quickly establishes itself. Galen is lifted astride him, shame burning his cheeks and neck and spurring him into a quick release each time. “Steady, now,” Thrawn reminds him, guiding Galen’s hands from the sheets to his chest, “let yourself feel how much I want you.”

 

Galen is never sure what grants him release, the physical pleasures of fullness and stimulation or the praise Thrawn offers so freely as he sinks and rises in minute thrusts on his cock. Orson had never been one for such frivolity, giving him nothing beyond a few false words in their early Academy days. Lyra’s cries and strangled panting had been more than reward enough, but Thrawn’s compliments are another sort of provocation altogether.

 

“Eyes open, now. Good, oh, perfect, Galen.”

 

Galen feigns sleep in the moments after Thrawn has spent, tight and hot and swollen within him. He keeps his eyes as low into the pillow as he can to avoid looks interpretable as invitations, but he is unable to fully shield himself from staring into the vastness of space beyond the viewport wall. He is unmoored by it, and it is easy to imagine that only Thrawn’s heated skin against his and the thrum of an unfamiliar language ground him from slipping into the encroaching abyss.

 

 

+

Thrawn can never bring himself to sleep while his knot is still full within Galen. The pleasure of such intimacy, even while oversensitive from release, is far too fine. Instead, resting a hand against Galen’s tender belly, soft with rest and proper nourishment, he examines their progress.

 

Galen exists in a liminal space now, irreparably separated from every experience or role he’s had in his life, yet unaccepting of the new status Thrawn offers him. However, as always, the key to success is to know one’s opponent—Galen’s fixation on his memories of Lyra and Jyn. Thrawn must dig past them to find the essence of the man’s spirit. Who was Galen Erso before he was a husband and father, before he was seduced by Orson Krennic? A poor Grange child, naturally inquisitive, unabashedly receptive to affection and praise.

 

_Nurture the boy, and the man’s affections will follow._

 

Thrawn’s confidence in Galen’s worth as a companion has not wavered. The man is pliable, yet, despite his ordeals, possesses a quiet dignity unlike any Thrawn has seen before. He never resists Thrawn’s kisses or embraces, though he never initiates any of his own. He accepts Cheunh without disdain, merely with that gentle curiosity in his eyes whenever Thrawn utters it, unaware that Thrawn can see his fluttering lids in the viewport’s reflection. He is impatient to indulge such interest, but the time is not yet right. He cannot stimulate Galen’s mind until he has made progress in accepting his circumstances and can be trusted not to escape himself through study.

 

And, Thrawn reminds himself, pressing a kiss against Galen’s ear, when Galen does grow towards the reward of learning at his leisure, he must block all sources regarding Alderaan’s destruction. Censorship is no virtue in Thrawn’s eyes, but the planet was destroyed by Tarkin’s command alone. Galen, however, will blame the deaths of billions upon his station’s laser. No, Thrawn has decided, it will be best to guide Galen into studies unrelated to Krennic’s interests for him. Galen would excel in languages, could develop his own interpretations from the art and philosophy references Thrawn keeps. Perhaps, after a time, even a novel science such as biology would suit him.

 

Galen presses back against the softening knot in his mock-sleep, his gentle sniff into the pillow reminding Thrawn of a particularly snug animal.

 

“Nah csarcican't vacosehn k'ates, ch'eo vir.”

 

 

+

Thrawn nearly preens as he gathers Galen close to him on the lounge after a particularly fine dinner, pausing now and then to tip his wine glass against Galen’s parted, unwilling mouth.

 

“I had thought to decorate our quarters with some art. Much of my personal collection is kept in my office or is mobile within various holoprojectors, but with you to adorn them now, they seem seem far too barren a setting.”

 

The painting is commed in, carried by four impassive stormtroopers. Galen is struck by the horrible realization that they are the first sentients aside from Thrawn that he has seen since the transport ship.

 

“Quite beautiful, isn’t it? I had it commissioned some time ago. A hand-beaded mosaic of the design scored into the hull of the _Chimaera_ , which I don’t believe you were able to see properly when you arrived.”

 

Galen is silent, watching with a hollow regret as the troopers exit and he does not bother to attempt to follow.

 

“The subject is, of course, a chimera. A legendary beast originating from Naboo, dazzling in its display of power, nearly absurd in shape, saved from being such by the grace of its lines and the ferocity of its determination.”

 

Galen studies it with a detached interest. It’s sharpened edges and sheer opulence remind him too closely of the art in Orson’s apartments on Coruscant for it to appear anything but distasteful to him.

 

“The ancient Naboo believed that their goddess of peace joined together a serpent and one of several varying agricultural species with the sheer force of her will once she was unable to reconcile the two into concordance. Her conviction manifested itself into a storm, killing all members of both species except those part of the newly-formed chimera. By thunder, kinship. Fitting for our union, isn’t it?”

 

Galen manages a nod when Thrawn tilts his lips to kiss Galen’s cheek, his throat tightening around his response.

 

“And this?” he gestures to the sculpture on the holoprojector table, vainly hoping that his curiosity might distract Thrawn’s hands from trailing further down his body.

 

“Ah? Do you like this one?” Thrawn asks with a coaxing stroke of the wood.

 

Galen cannot help himself from nodding. It has an air of familiarity to it, a pleasant simplicity that reminds him of the woodwork carved above every hearth on Grange. “What is it?”

 

“It is a Kalikori, a Twi’lek familial artifact passed from parent to child through the generations. Each adds to it in turn, carving or painting a design into the wooden blocks you see here.” Thrawn rests his chin upon Galen’s shoulder, tracing their intwined fingers across the patterns before Galen can jerk backwards in his iron grip. “This one belonged to the Rebellion General Hera Syndulla, found inside her father’s office when the Tann province of Ryloth was conquered by the Empire and their residence was re-purposed to serve as a headquarters. In fact, she and her band of miscreants broke into the property to retrieve it before choosing to detonate the structure, seemingly abandoning this to focus on matters more pressing to their current situation.”

 

Thrawn’s hand slips from Galen’s, his thumb resting upon the jut of his lower lip before coming to cup Galen’s rigid cheek.

 

“I do not bring this piece as a gift. You are a brilliant man, Galen. Surely you grasp the lesson I hope to impart from telling you this.”

 

A bright chill settles through Galen’s blood, sharp as a sedative injection while Thrawn begins to caress the tender back of his neck.

 

“The time has come for you to move past your mourning and become present in your new surroundings. I have been indulgent thus far, but you must allow me to help you adjust and see the possibilities you now possess.”

 

“How dare you,” Galen snarls, unable to remain the dispassionate prisoner under the ugly platitudes. “How dare you ask me to forget my wife and child? You’re no better than Krennic if you expect me to spread my legs in gratitude for a taste of the manipulation you call kindness.”

 

“I am not Krennic,” Thrawn grits from between his teeth, his composure close to rupture, the coldness that has creeped into Galen’s eyes spurring his fury. “I have given you affection, reprieve from the endless work he forced upon you, and time to process and set aside your grief privately. In return, you have turned Lyra and Jyn into idols, sacred images they would have hated had they known of them.”

 

The names crack like a slap against Galen’s fury. “If you feel any affection, admiration, any sort of decency for me at all, please kill me,” he chokes out after a moment. “If you kill me for my crimes against your Empire, then it will be a more dignified treatment than any you’ve shown me thus far. I would thank you for it even as I suffered my death.”

 

Thrawn is silent as Galen stares into his haunting red eyes, unafraid of their power, challenging it with his own determination.

 

A growl of breath against Galen’s cheek, a piercing wooden crack, and Thrawn tosses him to the floor, his disgusted hiss snapping against Galen’s trembling brain.

 

 

+

Thrawn spends the next three cycles in his office or on the bridge, never once returning to his quarters. The timeline falls into place well—there are still an inordinate amount of reports and requests to process even after the loss of Project Stardust and its commanding officers has been contained. He falls into an old routine, utilizing the _Chimaera’s_ gym fresher after his mid-cycle run and swim and sleeping on a cot he stores by the office’s main viewport, as he never has liked continuing work off-shift in his rooms. Pellaeon is either polite or wise enough to avoid the matter of Galen when Thrawn appears regularly at each meal, and the rest of the lower officers follow his example, at least within Thrawn’s limited earshot.

 

Isolation may be the final treatment Galen needs under Thrawn’s care. Like the sacrifice of the glass shards arranged into the tiles of the mosaic, the art of Galen’s spirit must be destroyed to create a greater piece. Thrawn remains deeply furious, the crackle of the Kalikori’s wood in his fist a constant echo between reports, but he knows that his anger must be contained and put to practical use. It has not been broken in vain, and its pieces will not fall to a garbage chute’s end. He shall keep them all the closer, he thinks wistfully, eyeing the remains that are art in themselves.

 

Thrawn sets such musings aside and instead turns back to this shift’s tasks. Eighteen hours spent pouring over strategy or study is hardly unheard of, and Thrawn has always thrived in such conditions, in the simmering pressure he applies to himself beyond the bridge in the heat of battle. With Alderaan destroyed, the Rebellion has surely been recruiting many of those who do not believe the official accident report and Thrawn has plenty of psychological theorizing and formulations to occupy himself with. Galen, he reminds himself tersely, is merely a favored prisoner.

 

When every task Pellaeon is not cleared for access to is complete, Thrawn allows himself to think back to Galen’s plight, idly switching over his private security holoprojection to show his own quarters. His face is carefully neutral as he studies Galen’s sobbing form, low and broken where it lies beneath the dining table that bears marks from when Galen thew himself against it earlier, a half-hearted destruction that had caused a tenderness to bloom in Thrawn’s belly.

 

None of the other decor in the room, beyond a few ripped sheets, bears any similar evidence of disfigurement. No, Galen has preferred instead to scream out his frustrations and grief, spending hours pacing the length and width of the room in a fevered suffering. All of his attempts against his life have been empty acts of self-depreciation, performed in order to ease his own conscience. In short, he has behaved just as Thrawn knew he would.

 

The mosaic, he notes with a satisfied thrill, remains intact beside the bed.

 

Three days without contact with another being. It should be less difficult for someone all reports had stated was quite naturally withdrawn, but Galen is no loyal officer or simple trooper. He carries a depth within him, a hunger buried beneath his pain, and Thrawn finds himself desperate to indulge it, to pet and pamper Galen into happiness.

 

Thus, despite the state of Galen’s vulnerable mind expressed through this show of need and dependence, Thrawn feels no stirrings of arousal within him. Instead, he clears his throat uneasily, turning the holoprojection to a study on the integrity of Grange’s nerf farming industry, framing his strategy.

 

 

+

“I deserve this!” Galen shouts, just as he has every time the doors have opened to allow the passage of the food service droids inside. He whirls around in shock and nauseating gratitude when, instead, he is met with steady footfalls and chiseled, inscrutable features. “Leave me to all that I’ve done, Thrawn!”

 

Thrawn stalks forward, grabbing Galen by his matted hair and dragging him up to meet his eyes. “I will not allow you to destroy yourself,” he declares sharply, letting Galen drop back to the floor in an ugly mimicry of his parting. “You will kneel, listen, answer my questions, and obey.”

 

Galen crawls a shuddering centimeter forward before collapsing against the carpet, his eyes fixed determinedly upon Thrawn’s.

 

“How did you punish your daughter, Dr. Erso?” Thrawn asks, his voice softening into a level neatness. “When she pouted or disobeyed, how did you respond?”

 

“I never punished her,” Galen’s voice is ragged, but his mind is clear with focus as he speaks. “Her…her mother would chide her, but we could never bear to do more than that.”

 

Thrawn repositions a chair to face Galen, sitting down with all the authority and weight of his rank. “And your own father?”

 

“Spanked me.”

 

“And how did he do it?” Thrawn’s hand wavers above his mouth in simulated thought. “Did he take you outside, use a strap, swat you with a strip of wood?”

 

“At his chair by the fire,” Galen feels his eyes water with the sudden need he feels for his own parents, long dead, their losses soothed into memory when he’d started his own family. “Over his knee, bare-handed.”

 

“Lastly, what do they call paternal figures on Grange, Galen?”

 

“‘Papa,’” he murmurs under his breath. “They call them ‘Papa’.”

 

“There, very good, Galen. Now, you will slide off those pajama trousers, climb onto my lap, and take the very same treatment you’ve described as a punishment for your myriad of trespasses these past few weeks.”

 

 _Weeks?_ Galen feels the word pierce him beneath the weight of humiliation and shame that accompanies the command, but Thrawn’s tone is insistent, his brow set with an expression that verges on pity.

 

Galen obeys.

 

“You’ll receive 56 swats, counted out loud to me. One for every standard year. That’s 28 on each of these.” Thrawn pats both cheeks softly before sliding his palm onto the left side, resting it there heavily. Galen stifles a whimper.

 

The heat of Thrawn’s hand is gone a moment later, cracking back down in a stinging arc without the force Galen had expected it to have. He focuses on the pile of the carpet beneath him, his voice rasping against Thrawn’s calf.

 

“One.”

 

Thrawn’s hand curls against Galen’s ass, the inhuman heat of it nearly soothing the sting. “‘One’, who?”

 

“One, Papa.”

  
  
Galen’s body settles against Thrawn as he receives each blow. It’s a timeless sort of cycle, predictable, easy enough to bear yet painful enough to be satisfying. He doesn’t feel the shallow sadness he’d felt as a boy when he’d been punished, but neither does he sink into the torment his adult life has brought him. The steady swats and the routine of counting keep him present, driving away his agonized thoughts for the first time since Thrawn had left.

 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he gasps after he’s counted the forty-sixth blow. “I’m sorry for my behavior.” _And for killing Lyra and Jyn and Orson and the engineers,_ he does not add.

 

Thrawn’s voice is low, unaffected. “Continue counting, Galen. Only ten more, and then this will be done.”

 

Galen dreads the moment the last blow will land. When it does, he knows that he will be unable to restrain himself into keeping the little composure he’s collected during this. He will be raw, open and fresh with relief and desperate for the warm affection that he knows Thrawn will grant him.

 

“I’m sorry, Papa. I am.” he manages after the last blow falls. “56, Papa,” he adds belatedly before he can hold back no longer, his ability to verbalize dissolving into his cries.

 

“Shh now, my dear,” Thrawn tuts, pulling Galen upright and settling him into his lap properly. “You’re quite forgiven. Now, let’s see what I have for you.”

 

Thrawn’s smile is careful, measured as he presses the object into Galen’s soft palm. He’s certain that his mouth parts in bitter awe before he buries his face against Thrawn’s chest, his insignia plaque digging lightly into Galen’s exposed neck.

 

“A little wooden nerf, carved with great care. You raised nerfs as a boy, didn’t you?”

 

Galen cannot be sure if Thrawn understands his answer between his muffled whimpers, but from the gentle touches Thrawn weaves along his heaving back, he suspects that he does.

 

“Yes, just as I’d thought. And I’m sure you had one like this then, too. An artifact to link your past to our future, to remind you of the happy moments of the former while easing you into the latter.”

 

Galen’s body aches with each sob, his mind spinning with vertigo and an overwhelming, clean relief. Would it truly be so terrible to acquiesce to this man, who offers him the forgiveness he can never earn from the galaxy’s memory, whose company and attentions grant him respite from remembering the pain he’s caused every being he’s ever loved?

 

“There now, my gift. You’ve been so good for me. What a sweet boy I have in my arms.”

  
  
The approval in Thrawn’s words is heady in Galen’s mind, overwhelming his fear as he tugs at Thrawn’s collar, drawing him into an unsteady, grateful kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Hera is my favorite character in Rebels and it hurt me to imagine her learning that this was how her Kalikori met its end. But I think it draws a sharp parallel between two father-daughter Rebellion relationships and shows the extent of Thrawn’s obsession with breaking Galen completely. Hopefully that, and the context the action is in, is enough to explain why Thrawn would ever destroy art, especially that of someone he sees as a worthy opponent. 
> 
> -“Where are the ysalamiri?” you may be asking. While I too love Lizard Dad Thrawn, I felt that they’d be distracting within the context of this fic. Does Galen help Thrawn in his future endeavors to understand and utilize their abilities? Does Galen help care for them and make sure they’re treated well? Has Galen ever been covered in a pile of them while Thrawn sat in a corner and laughed indulgently? Certainly possibilities for a future drabble or two. 
> 
> -Thrawn’s sentence in Cheunh translates to “We will be happy, my dear”.
> 
> -Credit for the use of “Papa” in the punishment arc goes to @baethoven. Her patience with me while I wrote daddy kink for the first time in four years was truly that of a saint.


	3. Chapter 3

  
+

Galen wakes to a darkened room, the scent of his own self-neglect absent when he exhales from the rawness of his throat. He gropes beside him for the familiar softness of a second pillow, nearly sobbing when it is present, warm with use. The solitude that clings to it, however—the suggestion of Thrawn’s presence in his absence—is unbearable.

 

“Pa—“ he cries out, almost upon instinct, before he settles somewhat into his own mind. “Thrawn?”

 

Thrawn’s silhouette appears in the fresher doorway, his skin backlit into an inky blue. “I didn’t mean to startle you, my dear. You were sleeping so well that I couldn’t bear to wake you and clean you just yet.”

 

Galen attempts to speak again, to ask Thrawn to return to bed, but the words are garbled in his mind, unable to be ordered and verbalized.

 

Thrawn sets the lights to half-brightness before climbing atop the bed to kiss him. “If you’re awake now, I’d like to treat any remaining marks. Then we’ll take care of the rest of you.”

 

Galen blinks, his stupor unbroken by the reminder of his aching back, the stinging swell of welts, his pulsing eyes and skull.

 

“On your belly now, atop the covers,” Thrawn instructs him leisurely, tutting when Galen hisses from the friction of the sheets. “Remain just like that.”

 

Thrawn’s weight is relieved from the bed and another bolt of panic smarts through Galen, the fresh instinctual fear of Thrawn’s abandonment for another interminable amount of time.

 

A sweeping gratitude echoes in Galen’s chest when Thrawn returns shortly, pressing Galen’s craned neck down against the coverlet. “Very good. Here, why don’t you squeeze this through the pain?”

 

Thrawn uncaps a bottle behind him, prying one of Galen’s hands free from its grip on the sheets and wrapping it around a sleek wooden shape. Galen shudders at the weight of the nerf curled safe within, its presence substantial enough to ground his mind into forming speech.

 

“Bacta?” he asks, the syllables rising and falling in a child’s inquiry.

 

“Yes, my gift,” Thrawn soothes, the meat of his palms spreading the gel efficiently over Galen’s roiling skin. The circumstances of the moment are utterly unarousing, yet Galen still feels a twist of desire in his belly as Thrawn’s touch grows lighter, allowing the bacta to sink into his skin with a burning ache. It’s hardly the worst physical pain Galen has ever felt, though he still grits out a gasp while the gel chafes against his welts for long moments. He grips the wooden nerf tightly, its horns digging into the tender flesh of his palm.

 

“Shh, dear one,” Thrawn’s voice undulates in the same rhythm as his fingertips against Galen’s skin. “It should cool as it absorbs. You’ll feel much better once it does.”

 

True to Thrawn’s word and Galen’s prior experience, the aching heat disappears quickly, replaced by a subtle chill unaffected by Thrawn’s touch.

 

“There. Flawless once more, with nothing left besides a pretty blush.”

 

Thrawn pets at the healed skin, kisses the swell of Galen’s ass once, twice, until Galen lets out a quiet noise.

 

“Mm, that’s a much sweeter sound.”

 

Galen cannot help but whine again when Thrawn pulls away after settling him into an upright position, the nerf and bacta consigned to the headboard’s shelf. “Now then, I’d imagine this isn’t the only part of you that’s sore,” Thrawn says, his voice oddly detached, eyes lingering against the cheerful wooden figure above him. “Unfortunately, my fresher is only equipped with standard equipment. However, there is a sauna not far from here, located in an officer’s gym.”

 

Galen blinks, his fingers tangling in his own hair at Thrawn’s use of the singular possessive. _My_. His thoughts feel sedated once more, clogged with exhaustion overlying the assurance left from Thrawn’s care.

 

Thrawn frowns, removing both of Galen’s hands and letting them drop idly into his lap. “Don’t be concerned about protocol. It’s currently 0306 and all fitness centers are closed until 0500. I’m the only one on the ship with the override code besides Pellaeon, and he has never cared for pre-shift exercises. No petty officers or troopers will see you. Your modesty is quite secure under my command.”

 

Galen shivers, watching as Thrawn activates his personal com. It would be far worse to disappoint him in this moment of liminality, he thinks, wrapping a towel around his waist in a mimicry of Thrawn’s actions beside him, than to miss an opportunity to find mercy upon the slim shoulders of another doomed child.

 

“Lieutenant Salu, I am taking Dr. Erso into Sector A-14 from my quarters in a peaceful transfer. Alert the guards stationed en route to this.”

 

“Understood, sir.”

 

Thrawn keeps him on his arm as they walk into the corridor, but there is none of his usual tenderness to the gesture, no edge of too-familiar intimacy. Galen is reminded of the false touches between couples on Coruscant at the Empire’s parties, facades for marriages long gone numb. He feels a thin chill of fear run through him at the idea of Thrawn regarding him so dully, the corridors humming around him with a heavy energy not present in Thrawn’s quarters.

 

“Salu commands the bridge during the ship’s sleep cycle,” Thrawn says as they turn into a longer corridor, apparently unconcerned by Galen’s shallow breathing against him. “Young but highly competent, very insightful. She originates from Eriadu and had political ambitions prior to being stationed aboard the _Chimaera_.” The uncharacteristic inanity of these comments are not lost on Galen, who focuses on the promise of warmth and closeness ahead.

 

Thrawn does not speak again, releasing Galen’s arm once the door he guides them through hisses shut behind them. The fresher they’ve entered looks much the same as the Academy’s had years ago: a spacious room silent save for echoing footsteps, smelling faintly of accumulated perspiration that cleaning droids couldn’t scrub away fully over the years. Galen follows Thrawn as he collects a folded towel and passes through another door, a burst of humid air brushing against his shoulders before it envelops him completely.

 

The sultry closeness of the sauna is a welcome diametric from the dehydrated, recycled air they’ve left behind. Galen settles into it quickly, letting it flow through his body as he copies Thrawn beside him, laying the towel he carries onto the short bench and sitting upon it. He cannot imagine contorting his legs as Thrawn does, instead choosing to fold his calves underneath his thighs in a half-kneel. The incessant rain of Eadu is far from here, the shivers of rain and sodden cold that had spent decades running through his hair and down his spine replaced by a heated dampness. It reminds Galen of being surrounded by Thrawn’s skin, a familiar blanketing warmth that verges on discomfort.

 

Galen places a hand upon Thrawn’s bared thigh, as though reassuring himself that Thrawn is not a figment of his isolation, conjured up to keep him from further madness. Thrawn’s flesh is steady against his palm, but he remains impassive, legs folded, upright and unconcerned by Galen’s trembling fear.

 

“Thrawn?” Galen whispers, shuddering when no response comes. The air has heated to a feverish sweat around them, stifling Galen and dragging against him when he slides off of the bench to kneel beneath him.

 

The sharp contours of Thrawn’s face are no longer unnerving to Galen, their harshness belying protection, the haughty ridge of his brow as familiar as the sight of his own hands. He is handsome, Galen realizes, his fingertips brushing just beneath Thrawn’s eyes before retracting. Thrawn has touched him identically hundreds of times now, and Galen thinks, a jolt of guilt hot in his belly, that he has never done the same.

 

Galen raises his hand again slowly to cup his cheek, relief heady when Thrawn’s eyes open to regard him without disdain. He catches sight of a smattering of silvery freckles beside his index finger, feels a gasp of breath leave him when Thrawn’s lips curve into a smile. Despite this, Galen is hesitant to arch closer to Thrawn, as though unsure of whether Thrawn desires this as well. Still, he allows himself to rise onto his heels, pressing their lips together with a soft click before pulling away with a shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving Thrawn’s.

 

Thrawn is motionless, watching him with eyes like reddened kyber while Galen’s mind races to accept the finality of his moment, the realization that this contact is no longer a punishment or a distraction from his grief. He has initiated two kisses between them now, and he finds, the air simmering around them in curls of heat, that he wants nothing more than to kiss Thrawn again for the very sake of doing so.

 

Galen looks deep into the darker red of Thrawn’s irises, smiling at the curiosity within them, at the need for knowledge he sees that is so similar to his own. He surges forward, his breath hitching in surprise at his own boldness just as his lips reach Thrawn’s. There is a sudden awareness of Thrawn’s sharp, unique taste, of how much warmer his mouth and tongue are than Lyra’s or Orson’s had been. Galen clutches Thrawn closer at the thought, pulling them both upright with his energy, unable to catalogue his thoughts further as he basks in the enthusiasm Thrawn communicates through his body’s movements.

 

Galen breaks away again after several moments, unwilling to ignore the raw need he feels to see Thrawn’s approval plain on his face. He is not disappointed, of course, finding himself struck by Thrawn’s slack mouth, his panting exhales that are nearly as ragged as in the moments when his knot first swells.

 

“Oh, Galen,” he breathes, and Galen hasn’t seen someone in such awe since Lyra first held Jyn. He rests his other hand upon Thrawn’s cheek to steady himself, his thumb pressing against the corner of Thrawn’s parted lips.

 

“Timid thing,” Thrawn murmurs, his red eyes half-lidded and inviting, “You mustn’t be afraid to ask me for affection. I will always reciprocate.”

 

Galen kisses Thrawn again, surer now, the memory made sweet and distant with sudden hope.

 

 

+

“Such a tender creature, just waiting for my touch,” Thrawn’s voice is low, letting a fraction of his arousal seep into his words. He is thoroughly engaged in the task of mapping every part of Galen’s body, from the soles of his feet earlier today to the peaked nipples currently resting between his fingers. He’s spent the better part of an hour on them alone despite Galen’s protests as to their sensitivity. Thrawn smiles, catching one between his lips. Despite his earlier statement, Galen has hardly been complaining.

 

“Orson had them pierced,” Galen moans, shifting his cock against Thrawn’s knee, “when we attended the Academy. Against regulations.”

 

Thrawn is surprised by how casually Galen offers such close information. He rewards this progress with a kiss to Galen’s trembling mouth, his blood racing at Galen’s pleading gaze when he withdraws his lips.

 

“Did he, now? And did you enjoy them?”

 

Galen’s disdainful sniff is cut off when Thrawn takes his cock into a loose grip. “I thought they were ridiculous,” he finally answers while Thrawn licks a gentle line bisecting his chest. “Obscene.”

 

Thrawn’s lips part over Galen nipple, his words curving against the rosy flesh. “Would you like a set yourself?”

 

Galen curls into a half-shrug, his cock leaking a few drops of fluid onto Thrawn’s attentive thumb. “They’d look even more ridiculous on me three decades later.”

 

The image of a tousled young Orson Krennic flashes before Thrawn. He can nearly hear the seductive lick of a lighter held to a cigarette, Galen curled cozily beside him. “I agree with your assessment as to their obscenity. Their ridiculousness, however, I must argue against.” Thrawn kisses Galen’s lower lip briefly, his unoccupied hand resting over Galen’s racing heart. “I think they’d accent these lovely things perfectly. A private knowledge, just for you and I.”

 

Galen lets out a hard pant when Thrawn’s thumb presses into the flesh of his lower pectorals, but he still does not acquiesce. Thrawn forces his brow into disappointment and breaks their contact, delighting in how Galen rushes forward to bring their mouths together once again. He considers his own feigned detachment days ago, remembers with a fresh hunger how quick Galen was to learn to initiate affection when Thrawn withheld it. He will allow this little defiance, he decides, pulling away with a lingering suck on Galen’s lower lip, so long as he should remain this greedy for Thrawn’s attention.

 

“We’ll agree to disagree then, my gift.”

 

Galen will not manipulate such situations to gain power, Thrawn reminds himself as he eases Galen open, savoring the wet slide of his fingers against Galen’s inner flesh. He can sense it in the sweep of Galen’s arms around him when he wakes, hears it in Galen’s voice when he greets Thrawn every evening. Galen has left behind his years of falsehoods, shattered by Tarkin along with the weapon that had created them.

 

Thrawn enters Galen slowly, allowing both of them to fully appreciate the sensations erupting within their joining bodies, beginning to thrust only once Galen’s body tightens and writhes beneath him in need. He is careful to rest Galen onto his side before his knot swells and he is drawn into a vein of pure security, Galen’s bright awareness brushing along the edges of his own.

 

 _Vun’kebah_ , Thrawn’s unmoored mind registers. _Beloved trust_. They have achieved the ultimate connection between two minds and two bodies that many Chiss couples spend years building towards and awaiting.

 

Thrawn moans out his gratitude in Cheunh, unable to cease the flow of his adoration into comprehensible phrases as he usually is able to do. He cannot think of anything but Galen in this state, can do nothing except listen to Galen’s soft, thrilling breaths, losing himself in the babbled noises against his jaw. He rocks against Galen simply to feel the slip of their skin’s contact against one another, dragging his hand upwards with great effort to stroke underneath Galen’s heartbeat.

 

"Please," he purrs from deep within his breast, Galen's responding kiss the most perfect sensation he's ever felt.

 

 

+

Galen finishes his spiced paricha, the heat of the meal settling pleasantly in his belly. He curls his back in comfort, the silk of his pajamas gliding across his skin.

 

Jyn had always liked root and nut mashes, he recalls, no matter how heavy or bland the source material. The memory is curiously sweet in his throat, as is the image of Orson’s clenched mouth whenever vegetables were present, but neither consumes him. Instead, they skim along Galen’s mind until he remembers Thrawn’s earlier promise of a holoprojection, and then they are put aside.

 

Galen eyes the remnants left in his bowl, and Thrawn smiles.

 

“Delicious.”

 

“You can have more later, if you’d like,” he says with a kiss to Galen’s ear, guiding him swiftly into bed and entwining their fingers beneath the covers.

 

“I’ve recently acquired a holorecording from Naboo that I’d like us to listen to together,” Thrawn continues once they’ve settled against each other further, resting his head back upon his pillow and guiding Galen’s cheek atop his chest. “A pastoral opera, rumored to include the genesis of the legendary chimera.”

 

Galen does not believe Thrawn’s feigned ignorance of the plot for a moment. “How unfortunate that we won’t be able to see their interpretation of it.”

 

“Mm, it is, though the Naboo say that operas such as this are best appreciated in one’s mind, without the distractions of reality to mar the artist’s intent. I am inclined to agree.”

 

Thawn uses a com remote to begin the recording, sliding his other hand down the length of Galen’s body while the low echoes of instruments enter one by one. Galen closes his eyes when Thrawn does, enjoying the heightened heaviness of Thrawn’s palm against his belly without his sight to distract him. He knows that he’s gotten soft, the curve of his waist swelling under the buttons of his silk pajama shirts, the weight of his thighs squeezing against the seams of his trousers. Galen’s never been carved of muscle, even during his most physically demanding years, but he’s begun to carry an indulgent softness to his belly, a thickness around his hips, rounded cheeks that shed years from his face. Now, when Galen is carried to the fresher after Thrawn’s knot recedes and their minds settle, he feels nearly delicate within the warmth of his powerful biceps. There is both alarm and relief in the sensation of such easy protection.

 

As the sound of the child goddess’s voice joins that of the chorus of beasts she has created, Galen allows himself to think once again of Jyn’s childish versatility, her sturdy spirit. His memories of her have softened along with his body, fading along with those of Lyra and even Orson into the familiarity of a favorite story. Their presence is powerful but distant, their endings lacking their prior tragedy now that Galen knows himself capable of sifting through their lives whenever he’d like, Thrawn steadfast beside him. He can laugh with Lyra over blue milk at the end of a day, share his first kiss with Orson on Brentaal, listen to Jyn babble and clap in his arms. This new detachment of his past and the painless accessibility of it has become its own comfort rather than sustenance or punishment, and Galen finds himself relying on it less and less as his present becomes far more real to him.

 

Galen’s eyes flutter open at the wailing that erupts when the goddess’s storm rages the chimera into birth. After a long moment, he closes them once again, breathing Thrawn’s scent in deeply and settling himself back into the narrative that unfolds around them.

 

 

+

Thrawn draws himself along the bed as he continues to slide his lips down Galen’s back, nibbling on each vertebrae in turn, careful to leave the skin unmarked.

 

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he breathes against the curve of Galen’s ass, baiting his curiosity before moving lower still.

 

“Please,” Galen gasps, pressing himself brazenly backwards, the gentle tang of his body underneath the lubricant perfect against Thrawn’s tongue.

 

“Of course.”

 

There is nothing else to be said as Thrawn finally mounts Galen and knots within him, their senses fading into wordless murmurs of need, into the security of their bond beyond the simple closeness of their bodies. The sensation has become familiar to Thrawn, fully comprehensible without falling into predictability, much like Galen himself.

 

“You whispered something to me.” Galen’s voice, when it returns, is lax, his body splaying against Thrawn’s in easy rest. “What did you mean by it?”

 

“I often whisper little nothings while inside you, my dear. You must be more specific.”

 

“No, earlier. It started with a “Mi-“ sound.”

 

Thrawn draws a series of circles around Galen’s navel, delighting in the quivering beneath his fingertip as he allows Galen’s curiosity to bloom within the pause.

 

“Ah, my given name on Csilla. ‘Mitth’raw’nuruodo’.” Thrawn lets the weight of it rumble from deep within his chest. “‘Thrawn' is my Core Worlds name.”

 

Galen lifts his head, alert with interest. “Would you prefer it if I called you that, Meet’raw’nurdo?”

 

“So eager to please,” Thrawn croons into Galen’s hair, kissing his ear to hide his amusement at the lack of rebuttal he receives, “but no. For what you are to me and I to you, my full name would be far too formal.”

 

Galen tilts his head further up so that Thrawn’s lips rest against his cheek. “Is it derived from a specific meaning in the Chiss's language? Do all Chiss have a certain structure to their names, the way I carry my father’s surname?”

 

“Yes, in short,” Thrawn replies with a purr, chuckling at Galen’s barrage of questions. “My people’s language is called Cheunh. Our names are formed on a tripartite structure. The first and third are our family’s name and our status within the Ascendency. ‘Thrawn’ derives from the second part of my full name.” Thrawn’s voice grows clipped, unwilling to think further upon the fury of exile. “Cheunh is nearly impossible for non-native speakers to learn, as our names and our words are quite similar. Both are quite nuanced, compounding thoughts and perceived realities into one form of communication, deeply intricate in nature…”

 

Thrawn is careful to keep his expression stoic, allowing his voice to trail off temptingly and inviting Galen to consider the implied challenge.

 

“I would like to learn it anyways,” Galen replies immediately, shifting onto his belly to study Thrawn’s reaction. “Even if I can’t speak it properly, I’d at least be able to understand some of your love-talk.”

 

It is futile for Thrawn to attempt not to smile at such devotion, but he still does not reply, gently prying the remaining words of Galen’s request from him.

 

”And,” Galen finally adds, nearly pleading now, “it would be something useful to do while you’re on shift. Please, I’d like to discover this part of you, the way you've discovered so much within me.”

 

Thrawn has been anticipating this request, teasing it out of Galen over the course of months now, yet finally hearing it voiced, this desire for a new mutual understanding, surprises Thrawn with it’s associated emotions. He feels a thickness rise in his throat when he takes Galen’s face into his hands, brushing their foreheads softly together. Asking to be allowed mental stimulation is different from gently taking a kiss, yet it is the same in turn. Both are intimate acts, evidence of Galen forging a trust in Thrawn’s care and yet maintaining his own mind.

 

“Sweet one, if any human can learn Cheunh, it is you.”

 

Galen grins, the flesh of his cheeks dimpling where it presses against Thrawn’s fingers. His eyes are wide with need, and it is in this moment, struck by Galen’s anticipation, that Thrawn is certain of their bond’s near maturity into love.

 

For now, however, the honest affection in the press of Galen’s mouth is a gift beyond any Thrawn has known before.

 

 

+

The robe is a subdued yellow-gold, the first garment made from genuine wool that Galen can remember wearing since his childhood. It is unexpectedly rough against his skin, draping neatly into a shape reminiscent of a senator’s short robes, folding into a slit across his left thigh. The asymmetry of the design pleases him, and he traces the curve of the fabric belt where it decorates the quiet taupe of his trousers.

 

“Are you ready to undergo the official sitting?“ CV-24 asks, situating itself a few meters away from where Galen has been studying Cheunh beside the holoprojector table. The droid has been cataloguing his unaffected movements for hours now—a tactic that Thrawn believes will aid Master Waecl in creating the most faithful interpretation of him possible, unencumbered by any posturing.

 

Galen smiles at the wooden nerf resting atop a new datapad, just out of the scanner’s view. “Yes, of course,” he replies, tucking the datapad beside him and staring straight ahead, his face falling into its natural contours.

 

Galen focuses on the chrono hung on the wall across from him, letting himself settle into his own thoughts. Watching the numbers tick neatly by remains a novelty for him, and he has found it much easier to be parted from Thrawn now that he is able to quantify exactly how much longer he must wait until he returns. His mind wanders after several minutes, returning to Cheunh. _1934_. What would the time be? He begins to count, embarrassed when he cannot remember anything past four— _vzo_. Vocabulary words, then. He thinks of the planet’s name— _Csilla_. Thrawn had told him that it meant “star”, and since then, Galen has been unable to stop his imagination from filling in the beauty Thrawn claims that the datapads do no justice to. The additional holoimages he's found are too grainy to substantiate his claims, coarse and obscured as though a coating of dust existed over the entirety of Csilla.

 

 _Stardust_. Galen feels a jolt at the phrase, barely remaining still until CV-24 finally powers off in dismissal an hour later. He undresses immediately, retrieving his datapad and climbing into bed, a smile spreading across his lips as he imagines a planet covered in stardust, its people cradling it in their hands.

 

 

+

_The expression Galen wears is one he’s never seen on himself before, communicated though the tiniest details of his features. His cheeks are curved with an easy sincerity, his eyes warm with invitation, creased faintly with age rather than amusement. Comfort and security are sketched into the bow of his lips, their arc stopping just short of a smile. There is none of the pure joy he’s experienced so rarely in his life, but neither is there pain or fraudulent happiness. There is simply a contentment, an assurance in himself and in the viewer of the portrait that Galen is proud to embody._

 

“A masterpiece, my dear.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Thank you for all your comments, kudos, and support! This was my first serious multi-chapter fic in several years and I’m so surprised by the huge (positive!) response you’ve all give me. I’ve absolutely fallen in love with both of these characters and while I’m not sure if I’ll continue this as a series, I’m happy to have seen this fic through to the end.
> 
> -“Csilla" is actually derived from a name that means “star” in Hungarian.
> 
> -What Thrawn refers to as Vun’kebah is my version of tantric sex mixed in with a slightly more cerebral facet. Because the Chiss are a people who focus heavily on emotional and physical intimacy in couples in my interpretation (despite projecting the opposite image to the rest of the galaxy), they tend to be more likely to achieve it than other species. The additional stimulation due to their anatomy (knots, two clits) certainly doesn’t hurt, either. 
> 
> -Again, my complete gratitude goes towards @baethoven for beta-ing and to all of you for your patience and kindness.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As He Takes From You, I Engraft You New](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10379256) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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